


The French Maid

by Dreadmartha



Category: Homestuck, Intermission - Fandom, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadmartha/pseuds/Dreadmartha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Droog gets Pickle Inspector into a skimpy French maid's costume.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The French Maid

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [picture,](http://gadaboutcrowd.tumblr.com/post/19165884576/wait-so-march-is-crossdressing-month-when-did-this) by the consistently high Shay.

He was ugly.

He was so, so ugly.

The theory that one’s own face was the image an individual was most familiar with made him sick because he. Was. Ugly.

Pickle Inspector had never minded the, the things Droog asked him to do, because he couldn’t say no to Droog and these things made Droog happy and all he ever wanted was to make people happy. And normally these things didn’t really involve how he looked. He’d always been grateful for the fact that Droog didn’t mind his ugliness, even overlooked it, even made him forget it now and then.

But this was so different.

And he was so ugly.

He stared at his reflection in the surface of his favorite teapot. His face was stretched out over its nice, long curves, his jaw smeared across the actual basin wear the tea sat, his eyes magnified far above on the lid that had been carved in the shape of a daisy.

His eyes ever big and blue and watery, staring back apologetically because they knew his horse-face destroyed the otherwise truly elegant teapot. It was fancy, Droog had bought it for him one night, after catching him eyeing it quietly when they were out for a walk. It was perfect. Tall yet lightweight, made out of clean, shiny steel, with tiny spirals and frills decorating its handle and sides. They were small and so delicate that from afar they were invisible, and the whole thing had a manner of being simple, beautiful, forthright, elegant and just so perfect.

He watched his teeth crush his pathetically thin lower lip, forcing himself not to look down further than his chin.

The kettle on the stove whistled.

He closed his eyes and turned to the stove.

The air in his apartment was colder than ever now, moving over his bare thighs and up under the tiny skirt and he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it oh god

Breathing was difficult with a tiny, easily untied corset gripping the bottom half of his lungs. This uniform, yes, it was a uniform, not a dress, the uniform was designed for a short, busty woman. The front had wire stitched into it, making it stand several inches out from his thin, pale, flat, struggling chest. The skirt barely stretched across his hips.

He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, his hand shaking as it curled around the knob that controlled the burner. The click of the burner trying to light again as he turned it off made him jump and look over his shoulder.

He was alone in the kitchen.

He swallowed again, feeling how dry his mouth was and gripping the edge of the stove.

Pickle Inspector was just tall enough to keep his feet on the ground if someone decided to bend him over the stove. His legs would turn to jelly, of course, if his hips were pinned up against the knobs for the burners. His feet would slip over the floor, looking for a better purchase, if his legs were pushed open by someone’s hips. He’d shiver and moan if hands pulling hot trails down his sides, massaging wrinkles out of the fabric of the dress. He’d yelp and whimper and forget his stutter if someone breathed his name and two lungfuls of rich cigarette smoke against his ear, pushing his skirt up around his waist and working his hips against the stove.

His voice would echo metallically around the apartment when teeth found his throat and his legs strained against the door of the stove.

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling to try and distract himself.

Don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down.

His hands shook and his cheeks burned but he managed to pour the water and start brewing the tea. He pulled at his hair some more, but the skirt didn’t loosen any.

He tried to breathe. The corset was tight, and he felt himself sweating in the tightness of the dress—

Of the uniform. Uniform.

The timer in his head went off a little to quietly and Pickle Inspector very nearly overbrewed the tea. He whimpered, setting the pot on the tray he usually used to serve Droog tea. It was an extravagance that, before now, had never seemed so flashy.

Up till now he’d only thought it polite to use the handled tray.

The maid’s uniform matched the tray too well for him to rationalize using them both.

He would do it for Droog.

To make Droog happy.

He carried the tray into the living room. He’d only poured one cup because, for all that he desperately needed something to calm him down, he didn’t want to risk carrying and spilling more than one cup of hot tea.

Droog, mercifully, was reading the paper as he walked in. Because he had to walk, he couldn’t just shuffle with a skirt. His eyes rolled over Droog, finding familiar lines and some relief. The world was not totally graceless. For every Pickle Inspector there was a Diamonds Droog.

He fit the armchair so perfectly, his elbows just touching the arms, his legs bent just right so that the backs of his calves against the very edge of the seat cushion.

Pickle Inspector had never been able to get comfy in that chair, he was relieved to see it fit someone.

He set the tray down on the arm of the chair, started taking Droog’s tea from the tray as the newspaper rustled and he shivered as Droog looked him up and down.

“So I take it you like your uniform.”

His hands were steadier than he’d guess they’d be, and he’d set the cup down on the little table beside the chair in time to feel Droog trace a quick line up the inside of his thigh. His hands tightened on the handles of the tray. He sighed, whimpering just a little as Droog smiled thinly at him. Fingers tugged at the edge of his skirt and he bit his lip.

“C’mon.”

A hand wrapped up and around his thigh and Pickle Inspector thought he might die.

Droog tugged at his leg, his thumb moving over pale skin and making the other man freeze up. He wanted Pickle Inspector spread across his lap, begging to be touched and bitten and fucked and loved.

Any other time, he would have found it in himself to enjoy that.

Now, though he couldn’t, it was a step too far for him.

Droog didn’t agree. His foot hooked around Pickle Inspector’s ankle and yanked his leg out from under him. Inspector yelped as Droog pulled him into his lap. Their legs tangled together as Pickle Inspector debated whether or not he was better served going or staying. He gripped the arm of the chair, feeling a big hand pulling more of him up against Droog, while one of his legs was caught between Droog’s calf and the edge of the seat cushion.

Pickle Inspector shivered there, straddling one of Droog’s legs and feeling hands roam over him, feeling for twitching muscles and ticklish nerves as he tried harder than he could remember to keep still.

Droog was reminded of the instinct rabbits had to go still at the sight of a predator.

He breathed against the Inspector’s ear, before catching it between his teeth and biting for blood. When he got a good taste he sucked at it hungrily, squeezing with lips and teeth for a new swell.

His head was swimming, it always did, when Droog let go of his ear. This close he could hear every quiet breath the other man took, and he listened carefully for the hitch of breath that passed for laughter with Droog. It didn’t come as readily as he thought it would. Instead there was a long, quiet moment where Droog breathed easily against his ear, looking him over again and deciding whether or not he liked this.

Hands slid down his sides, over his hips and under him, squeezing through the skirt. He squeaked and then gave way to whimpering, flinching when Droog hummed appreciatively against his ear. His own hands reached out for the tea tray, taking shaky hold of it and setting it on top of his lap. Droog’s lips tugged at his ear again, softer this time. Pickle Inspector sighed, feeling how warm he was, from his big arms to the neat lines of his chest, to the long muscles of his leg.

The bottom of his stomach fell out when one big hand slipped down his arm, warm fingertips gliding over bare skin, feeling along the point of his elbow, down to his wrist. Fingers pulled his hand away from the handle of the tray, wrapped around his wrist and pinned his arm to the arm of the chair.

He shuddered, trying to hold the tray still in his lap, while Droog’s other hand ventured over his hip, then under the tray, supporting its weight easily as he set the tray back on the arm of the chair. Pickle Inspector shifted around, trying to slip out of Droog’s lap without moving at all. His free hand grappled with the tray, trying to keep it from spilling over as Droog’s fingers slid over the frilly white apron on top of the skirt.

Droog gave him a tender squeeze, sucking at his neck. The Inspector sighed, his back ramrod straight as Droog’s thumb rubbed his head through the silky fabric. His brow was hot, his fingers twitching. The tray jangled as in shook in his hold. Droog’s tongue was hot against his neck, then cool, then hot again as teeth rolled over soft skin.

He was getting the skirt wet, making the fabric cling tighter. Pickle Inspector made a little noise, mewled, rocking his hips just a little into Droog’s touch. He thought of the bruises on his hips, the few red patches on his neck, his shoulder, the heat against his back, the sweat that didn’t ease the grip of the corset. Droog traced a spiral on his tip and Pickle Inspector gasped. His chest was tight and cold, his hips rolled under him and he moaned as the fabric clung to him then slipped over hot skin.

Everything was hot and cool and he hummed, trying to keep his voice down.

Droog rocked against him.

Oh my.

Pickle Inspector whimpered as Droog pulled away.

“Droog,” he didn’t mean to whine but, well, it was, he was, it, he,

Droog hitched the skirt up around his waist, letting go of his wrist and shifting Pickle Inspector’s weight around. He pushed his legs open, rolling his tongue over his neck and biting. Soft skin, cool but vibrating with the blood pounding through him. He’d warm up soon, work up a sweat, try to slip free of his uniform before screaming for him.

He ran his hands up those long legs, dragging his nails along and watching Pickle Inspector shiver. He was biting his tongue. Droog took hold of his chin, turning his head and pressing their mouths together. He sucked at Pickle Inspector’s lower lip, tugged at it with his teeth and ran his tongue over the other man’s teeth.

He leaned back, making Pickle Inspector twist to keep their mouths together. He took hold of his hip, then traced the curve of his back with one finger, over the criss-crossing ribbon of the corset, down its spine to the folded over frills of the skirt and then down.

The Inspector broke the kiss, inching away.

“I—I, I,”

Droog hushed him and kissed his neck, biting him just a little as he pressed a finger inside.

He hissed and mumbled to himself as Droog worked his finger in to the first knuckle, covered his mouth to try and hide the hitching of his breath and the beginnings of moans as he worked up to the second knuckle. Droog added a finger and he pushed back slowly, shivering and biting his hand, his face bright red.

Droog undid his belt and pulled himself out, stroking slowly and watching Pickle Inspector start riding his fingers.

Shiny black skin on soft white skin, frills at the shoulders and on the apron, even knee-high stockings and mary-janes, a corset and, the final blow in Droog’s opinion, a feminine little bowtie. It was all contrived to humiliate him, of course, but now, seeing his chest straining to reach the front of the dress, his stockings falling down his shaking legs, his adam’s apple straining against the tie. He was just beautiful.

Droog sucked at his neck, feeling how tight he still was. Pickle Inspector’s moaning made his neck vibrate against Droog’s lips, pushing his vein every closer to his teeth.

He pulled his fingers out, closing his eyes and listening as he panted into his hands.

“Turn around.”

He was shaking so badly he could barely get his leg loose. Droog had to help him turn around, a knee on either side of Droog’s chest. Two big hands guided him down onto the other man’s erection and he moved slow, his jaws quivering as he groaned and clung to the arms of the chair.

“Ahhhhh,” Droog leaned forward, sucking at his collarbone as he stretched over the head. Pickle Inspector was still so tight. Droog glanced up. His eyes were closed and his brow was tight was pain. But he rocked lower and moaned and Droog couldn’t hear anything but enjoyment in it.

He took hold of the Inspector’s hips and thrust up, making him all but scream. Droog breathed against his chest, crushing them together and thrusting up again. He’d tried to make Pickle Inspector do all the work, but time and again his control slipped and suddenly all he wanted was to be the one making him cry out. Those spidery hands crawled at his back and he bit into his shoulder, pulling their hips together again. He was tight and hot and he starting to beg for it harder, harder oh god please, right there, right there, harder, please fuck me harder.

Droog tasted blood, pulling him around and pinning him in the seat of the chair, crushing him into the cushions and feeling one long hand leave his back. He started stroking himself off as Droog fell into a rhythm, feeling him spasm and give here and there. Those legs bounced against him so perfectly and it took nothing to hold him down and his blood was hot and slippery. He was loud against Droog’s ear, sighing and moaning and screaming all at once, gasping and wheezing as he pulled out slow, so slow, then rammed into him.

Droog reached down, grabbing at the ribbon of the corset and yanking. Pickle Inspector cried out, then moaned so loud, his eyes rolling back as his other hand slide up the fabric of the dress. He was beating himself off through the skirt. Droog caught his mouth again and kissed him hard, feeling how much he could stretch.

His tongue was hot and eager.

He broke the kiss long enough to breathe, then split his lip and sucked at the wound, his bones groaning as he worked inside the Inspector. He started screaming, clawing at Droog’s back and tugging at his hair. His body quaked as he came into the skirt and Droog’s head swam.

For a long moment all he could feel was the heat and tightness and the bouncing of the long, beautiful legs, and he found himself roaring in Pickle Inspector’s ear as nails racked across his back and he came.

He rocked slowly, pulling out as Pickle Inspector held him, then the arms of the chair and panted. His hair was a mess, he was shiny with sweat and red all over. Droog kissed him, slowly, feeling the sweat trapped under his suit. His lips were clumsy, still shaking. He loosened the corset and Pickle Inspector gasped and coughed. Droog fixed his skirt and pulled his stockings back up. His hands shook, but Pickle Inspector reached up and adjusted Droog’s collar, then his tie. He smiled sheepishly, leaning his head against Droog’s clavicle. He sighed and looked at himself upside-down.

The stockings did fit his legs quite nicely, from this angle.


End file.
